


Ask To Be Unbroken

by frenchforbird



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Ancient dwarves, Arlathan (Dragon Age), Character Death, Elven Goddess Inquisitor, Elvhenan, Forgotten Ones (Dragon Age), Multi, Slow Burn, The Creators, The Evanuris - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchforbird/pseuds/frenchforbird
Summary: What if Solas wasn't the only member of the Inquisition hiding an ancient past? Over six thousand years before the Breach, an elven woman walks among the ranks of the Forgotten Ones, unaware of what fate has in store for her.Rewrite/continuation of What Makes A God. Updates every two weeks.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to ElvenSemi, for keeping me in Solavellan hell for a longer period of my life than I had planned, to Feynite, for inspiring this concept, and playwithdinos, for being a wonderful friend. 
> 
> Thank you to the following websites for the lore, timelines, and language breakdowns that I needed to write this fic.  
> http://www.dumpeddrunkanddalish.com/  
> https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_Wiki  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/359253?view_full_work=true

She notices him out of the corner of her eye, lost in the fighting, the Fade bleeding into the small mountain path. A flicker of recognition is quickly discarded. The odds of them both being here, after all this time-- a lesser shade consumes her vision and she abandons that train of thought. All she can focus on is the fighting and the pain in her hand, her body faltering in time with the Breach. 

“Quick!” A hand closed around her wrist. A final demon falling to a crossbow bolt. The mark on her hand screaming with the new sensation. “Before more come through!”

When it ends, Fen’Harel stands in the fading light of the rift, beaming with the success of the mark. After thousands of years, they had found each other again. There’s no recognition in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're excited to dive into this new fic with me! It's not entirely new, considering I tried to write this exact concept two years ago, but I've revamped (and actually outlined) the story to be bigger and better than it was originally. Be expecting the first official chapter within the next week, after which I will attempt to update every two weeks.
> 
> If you'd like to chat, you can find me on tumblr at birdfrenchforbird (my main) and natalierosewrites (my writeblr, with a focus on original fiction). I'm also on twitter at frenchforbird. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and, as always, feedback is always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two thousand and seven years after the founding of Arlathan-- six thousand four hundred and thirty three years before the explosion at the Conclave-- a young elven girl looses her mother.

Two thousand and seven years after the founding of Arlathan, Atisha’s mother dies in the undercroft of Falon’Din’s temple. It’s an easy passing, the priest tells Atisha, lowering a worn blanket over the dead woman and ushering the child back upstairs. Falon’Din would guide her soul to the Beyond, and she would be at peace for eternity.

“I’ll have my apprentice walk you home,” she says, washing her hands in a shallow basin of water. Priest Silil doesn’t deal with children often. Her duty is to help the dying die, not comfort the ones they leave behind. “Do you have family to stay with?”

“No.” Her mother’s death had been too sudden to think about where Atisha was going to go afterwards. She tugs on a loose thread at the hem of her shirt and watches it unwravel. Priest Silil sighs, a great heaving breath. 

Atisha had never been to Arlathan before. Her and her mother lived in the farthest outskirts of the city, barely able to catch glimpses of the glistening spires over the treetops when they walked to the well each morning. The fact that her mother is dead is shoved to the back of Atisha’s mind as she took the chance to absorb the pure beauty of the inner city. 

Atisha is not a cruel child. She will mourn her mother’s death for centuries. But she’s still a child, barely older than twelve, and even elven children struggle with grief. Parts of Atisha are praying that her mother would be sitting in front of the fire when she got home, a few stitches on her forehead, scolding Atisha for running off. She would much rather be scolded than be an orphan. The house will be so empty now. It’s better to focus on the beauty of Arlathan: spirits soaring overhead, the quiet murmur of people going about their day, the sun reflecting rainbows onto the streets. 

“Aren’t things supposed to be sad?” 

“I beg your pardon?” The apprentice blinks at Atisha. He hasn’t been paying much attention for the entire walk, his daydreaming obvious even to a child.

“When someone dies. When Himthena died, the world turned grey, and sad.” She wraps her arms around herself and mumbles the rest. “That’s how the story goes, anyways.”

“Himthena was a god.” The apprentice is no better than Priest Silil at dealing with children. “It’s important when a god dies.”

“So if Mamae was a god--”

The apprentice sighs, having hoped that his blunt response would discourage this train of thought. He presses his fingertips together and thinks of himself as a child, what he could take as an answer without crying. His childhood is long forgotten, but he finds an answer to his internal question.

“If your Mamae was a god, she wouldn’t have died from a simple knock on the head.”

Atisha touches her fingers against her forehead. She wonders what her mother must have felt when she fell from the ladder. It’s hard for the girl to not remember the sharp crack as her skull hit the stones and the blood that followed. The apprentice finds relief in the silence Atisha responds with. She struggles with the fact that she will never see her mother again as the dense streets of Arlathan fade out into the scattered cottages of the outer neighborhoods. The sun sets over the distant mountain range and casts the entire seen in a blood-orange light. Atisha’s mother always said that these sunsets belonged to the gods, because they were so beautiful. Gifts from the Power. She would have been sad to miss this one. 

*

After the moon rises, in the dreadful quiet of a too-empty cabin, Atisha dumps out her mother’s trunk of things with no ceremony. She’s a child who lost the only family she had. It’s alright for her to act with such disregard for propriety. Her small hands dig through the pile of things, sorting them into three piles. The smallest is a collection of coins, the only money that Atisha has to her name. Then, it’s her mother’s clothes, the familiar smell of her warmth and presence. The last pile is the one she covets the most. They’re little trinkets, pieces of the bloodlines that Atisha is a part of. Her mother never let her look at them. She believed that they were the only family that they needed. But now, having no family left, Atisha can only hope that they give her answers.

The story of Atisha’s mother began six hundred years ago. She was the daughter of the High Priestess of Sylaise, raised within the confines of the goddess’s city. Her name was Vasan, and when she was nearly two hundred years old, she ran away from the sanctuary she had known all her life. She travelled all of Elvhenan, learned the languages of every farflung elf, and when she finally came home, her mother was dead. Sylaise offered Vasan the protection of her service, but her grief over losing her mother in her young impulsive adventure caused Vasan to turn away from Arlathan. She settled down outside of the city, punishing herself with a simple and regulated life. Every evening she prayed to Falon’Din to care for her mother’s soul, and every morning she prayed to Sylaise to thank the goddess for her kindness. 

Atisha learns none of this from her mother’s trinkets. She finds a medallion with the symbol of Sylaise engraved into it, the design worn thin with age. There is a scroll with a sketch of herself as a baby; another scroll with a sketch of a woman who could be her mother but isn’t. A carved owl with a chip missing from its wing brings Atisha great peace when she sees it, but no answers. Perhaps if she were older, she would understand what all these things mean. The one thing she understands, her fingers finding it stuck in the corner of the empty trunk, is a ring of horns-- the symbol of Anaris. 

Atisha’s mother worshipped the Creators just as the other citizens of these Arlathan outskirts do. There’s no reason for her to have the symbol of the king of the Forgotten Ones hidden away unless she had a secret connection to the man. Even young Atisha knows this, her mind spinning conspiracies as she stares at the shining metal. It’s a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship. She wonders why her mother never sold it as she packs her belongings into a bag nearly as big as herself. That night, she sleeps in the wide expanse of her mother’s bed, wrapped in a warm blanket with the light of the moon on her face.

*

Atisha bribes her way to the borders of the Void, and there is an importance in this, a shadow of the woman she will become, sweet-talking the people she passes along the road to carry her all the way from Arlathan. It is something that Melana’lin notices in the throne room of Anaris, standing at her husband’s side. This child of twelve years managing to cross half of Elvhenan before presenting Anaris his ring with no fear or apprehension. 

“Get her out of my sight,” Anaris demands. Soldiers leap to his whims and make for the small child. She’s frightened and confused, emotions etched into her face as clear as day.

“I’ve missed having children running around the place.” The soldiers stop at Melana’lin’s voice because they recognize the stern challenge of her husband’s authority. They’ve heard it before and they will hear it again. “I’ll raise her myself, dear.”

This is how Atisha finds herself taken in by the queen of the Forgotten Ones, a piece of her mother’s past slotting itself into her future. Vasan had spent a night with Anaris after meeting him on a dark city street. He left the next morning, having only been in Arlathan for petty negotiations, and when a letter arrived informing him of a daughter he responded as he always did to his bastard children: a ring of pure metal, to be sold to care for the child, and an instruction to never contact him again. Having bastard children was bad for his image, of course.

Melana’lin knows of his affairs and scattered blood through Elvhenan, has known for a long time. Her decision to take in Atisha is not out of kindness, although she treats the young girl with no lack of it as time progresses. No, her reasoning is simple. She can tell there is something different about this girl, something more. There is a strength she has not seen since before the Great War. It’s best to keep strength like this in the family.

Atisha sleeps in a new bed that night, mind still reeling from the day. The answers she sought from Anaris were not the ones she received. The palace that the time goddess had instructed her to call home wraps around her in cold metal and forbidden magic. She questions herself, before she falls asleep, wondering if she had taken the right path in coming to the Forgotten Ones, but she can think of no alternative but to live in that small and lonely cottage until her money ran out and she died in the middle of winter. She finds herself thinking of death now, more than she ever did before. 

When Atisha finally sleeps, it is without the knowledge that her life will be filled with more death than she could have ever imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will update every other Tuesday, circumstances (aka college) permitting. 
> 
> I've decided to write this in present tense, to mix things up from how I usually write/feel most comfortable writing. If I've made any tense errors, please let me know!! I found quite a few in my editing and am sure I missed more. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Feedback is always appreciated <3
> 
> Follow me on twitter (frenchforbird) and tumblr (birdfrenchforbird / natalierosewrites) for life updates and other content!


	3. Chapter 3

Melana'lin describes Atisha as a free spirit whenever anyone asks how her new charge is doing. She never offers any details, and there's always a look in her eyes that convinces people not to question her further. She's not lying to them, but there's good reason to keep Atisha in shadow. The child has undeniable power. Melana'lin understands the importance of keeping such power under wraps, especially if she is going to prove useful to Anaris in her future. 

This power manifests within a year of Atisha arrival in the Void. Every morning, Melana'lin takes her to the royal gardens, and has the girl train until she masters another spell. It's an unkind regimen. Atisha goes without breakfast most mornings, and misses lunch almost as often. She finds herself thinking about her mother most during these training sessions. Her old life, while missing lavish clothes and five course dinners, was kinder than this. Gentler. At least she's used to waking up at dawn every morning. 

Vasan trained Atisha as most elves in Elvhenan were trained. She knows how to safely commune with spirits, how to control her emotions and not burn down an entire village, but the finesse is lacking. There's a difference between having magic and knowing how to utilize it to its full potential. This is drilled into the girl's head every morning. She trains blasts of fire into fine points, focuses her ice on one warm body, and learns to warp the world to her whims. The Void, in all its darkness and corruption, lends itself well to the magic of the latter. 

The first morning Melana'lin begins to delve into Void-enhanced magic, Atisha is no more prepared than usual. She fumbles her first four attempts at casting the transportation spell. The rising sun is too bright in her eyes, and she's distracted by the blooming emberium. 

"Focus, da'len!" Melana'lin snaps. "Think of nothing but the spell!"

There's something about Melana'lin that frightens and entices young Atisha. The distant memory of motherhood clings to the war-worn goddess. Atisha is so desperate to please this woman-- the only mother figure she can find-- that she reaches past the known boundaries of her magic. If she can't do it fast, she can do it big. 

An audible snap disrupts the garden as the magic of the Void pulls itself tight against the young girl. Her head swims with pressure. She's certain she's been blinded, and her ears are ringing. Melana'lin cries out in joy as Atisha reappears on the other side of the garden, and for the first time since she began her training, Atisha makes it to breakfast. 

Miles away, in the sunlit beauty of Arlathan, a glass breaks in Ghilan'nain's hand. 

*

Melana’lin braids Atisha’s hair for the first time that night. The girl sits in the goddess’s lap, her long black hair slowly tugged and maneuvered into complicated loops and coils. There is complete silence in the room. Atisha even manages to keep her calm when Melana’lin’s fingers snag in her hair, tugging against her scalp. Aside from that moment, it is a gentle ritual, a tradition began by Melana’lin’s own mother, thousands of years ago, when the goddess was just a child being trained for greatness. 

The motherhood of this act does not go unnoticed by Atisha. She still remembers the tenderness by which her mother would tug her hair behind her ears, brush out tangles, tie in flowers. Each pearl Melana'lin inserts into Atisha's hair is lovingly chosen from a dish at her bedside. When she finishes, Atisha reaches up and runs her fingers down the tight coils. A smile breaks across her face. This is acceptance, this is Melana'lin's form of love and affection towards a daughter her husband illicitly sired.

“Do you like it?” Melana’lin asks. She retrieves a mirror from her nightstand so that the young girl can see her face. Atisha stares at the reflection in the glass. “You have your father’s eyes.”

“Anaris?” Melana’lin nods. Her face does not betray the inner turmoil a woman must have when they are talking with the bastard child of their husband. “He never talks to me. He didn’t want me to stay.”

“No, he didn’t. He’s a stubborn man. Be careful of stubborn men, little one.” She slides off of Atisha’s bed. There’s a pitcher of water across the room that she heads towards. “And never fall in love with one.”

“Are you in love with Anaris?” Atisha thinks of the couples she sees in the village square sometimes, romancing each other with gifts and feats of magic. Melana’lin looks over her shoulder at Atisha and gives a light laugh. 

“Yes, very much so.” She pours them both a glass of water and returns to sit on the edge of the bed. “And he loves me.”

“Why does he have other children if he loves you?”

There is an underlying edge to Melana’lin’s self. She is not known as the goddess of motherhood for a reason. Anaris fell in love with the Melana’lin of the battlefield, all edges and blood magic. It takes a large deal of self control for the goddess to reign in her bitter anger at Atisha’s comment, and for a brief moment, it frightens the girl. Melana’lin hands her a glass of water.

“Eternity is a very long time, little one. Some people find it hard to love only one person for eternity. But we do love each other, Power be kind, and that love will last as long as we do.” She reaches forward to rest her hand on Atisha’s cheek, and is almost surprised when the girl does not flinch. “I will love you, too, Atisha. I am sorry that I never got to meet the woman who raised such a lovely child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all doing well! Like many college students, I have been sent home and will be doing online schooling until, at the very earliest, May 4th. This, of course, gives me time to actually keep to an update schedule-- we're going to try and post once a week for as long as possible. Sorry to leave you guys hanging for so long! Rest assured, I won't give up on this story, it just depends on how long it takes me to write it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Leave a comment to let me know what you think so far! <3


	4. Chapter 4

Arlathan is different when Atisha walks its streets as a woman. Nevermind her ulterior motive, she’s taller than she was six hundred years ago, the same age as her mother was when she died, and has lost that glistening childhood outlook on life. The spires still shine in the setting sun, all shades of reds and oranges, and there’s a peace to the city that the Void lacks. Atisha can’t be happy here, not after her childhood, but she smiles at the peddlers packing up their wares for the evening and the children running around the stoops of the houses. 

Tonight’s mission is simple. Mythal is hosting a gala in honor of the Fen’s son getting married. Behind the third champagne stall in the eastern wing is a door to the inner sanctum of Mythal’s Temple that is regularly left unlocked. Atisha is to slip through that door, go up to the second floor, and meet one of the disciples in order to deliver a letter from Adeni. Something feels demeaning about only being sent to Arlathan as a messenger, but the building excitement of briefly attending an Arlathan gala overrules that. 

“Friend!” A voice calls out across the street, from a woman standing in the doorway of a tavern obviously celebrating something. Atisha’s heart clenches at the addressal. “You look beautiful! Are you going to gala?”

“Who are you?” Atisha hopes her voice sounds as calm as she wants it to be. The woman’s grin brightens, straining the pattern of Mythal burned across her face. 

“A fellow invitee! Come, join me and my friends for a drink. You can’t go to a gala sober, let me assure you.” The woman extends her hand towards Atisha, who can see a gaggle of well-dressed drunks sitting at some of the tables in the tavern. “Is this your first gala?”

“Yes,” Atisha answers stiffly. “But I’m already meeting someone beforehand.”

There’s a flash of disappointment on the woman’s face before it brightens once more. “Well! I won’t keep you any longer, then. Perhaps I’ll see you there!”

Atisha smiles politely until the woman goes back inside the tavern and returns to one of the tables. She wants so desperately to join them, but she can’t establish herself as a familiar face to anyone else in the crowds. Sharing a drink with these folks would mean there’s someone left to wonder where she’s disappeared to halfway through the night.

When she reaches the gates to Mythal’s Temple, she does her best to hand over the forged seal of entry without an air of suspicion about her. The guard barely glances at it. Their eyes register the family branching of Mythal’s seal and waves her inside, where the gala, despite the people in the streets, is already in full swing. The embarrassment she had felt over Melana’lin hand-picking a gown for the occasion melts away at the glittering silks of everyone else in attendance. 

Atisha had heard nothing of the lavishness of Arlathan from her mother, and any tales of the beauty and bacchanalia she heard from Anaris’s court was tinted with the bitterness of an ousted king. By all rights, Atisha should hate the abundance, and scorn it as all other servants of her father do. She can’t stop herself from loving everything she sees. Despite the centuries she has lived, she is still young. 

The Temple Gardens, half encircled by the crescent moon of the Temple itself, are hard to navigate with the partiers running amok. There’s spirits milling around the elves, everyone brandishing glasses of champagne, music lilting over their heads. Atisha lets herself get pulled into a single dance. One of her slippers is lost underfoot as a stranger drags her into the fray.

“You look lovely,” he says, or rather yells, his lips grazing her ear to be heard. His skin is adorned with the marks of Sylaise. They suit his face well, emphasizing his strong jawline and dark eyes. “My name is Venavismi.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Atisha yells back. She doesn’t give him a name. The last thing she needs is some servant to the Creators recognizing her from a mission. He takes this omission of knowledge in stride, spinning her around the widening circle of people with ease and experience. 

When the music falters, a handful of elves break away from the dancing. Atisha leaves Venavismi to find a new partner and slips back into the crowd. She thinks she hears his high voice calling after her but doesn’t turn her head at the sound. One dance, to blend in, let her hair become appropriately mussed, to let her forehead glisten with sweat, nothing else. There’s a mission to be completed. 

The two elves running the champagne table are too lost in their envy for the partiers to notice Atisha breezing past them and into the cool stillness of the inner gardens that line the Temple walls. The unlocked door, left slightly ajar even now, spills a warm light from it as she approaches. She pulls on the iron handle and winces at the creaking noise it makes. This is still the easy part of the mission, she can’t afford getting caught before she’s even in the building.

Said building takes her breath away when she steps inside. Atisha is used to the grandeur of the Void and Anaris’s palace, but this is different. Light green marbling lines the floors and walls, veilfire reflecting quite prettily off of the surfaces. She’s glad for the leather slippers she chose to wear. They muffle her footsteps against the polished floor as she slips down the hallway in search of a staircase. Her contact is supposed to be on the second floor, in a room across from an arbor grace. 

One of the doors on the first floor that Atisha passes is cracked open to reveal a group of disciples inside. They crowd around a table and are speaking in hushed tones, their voices barely carrying out into the hall. Atisha wants to stop and listen, but she sees light spilling down a staircase ahead of her. Promising herself to check the room after meeting with her contact, she slips away from the open door and up the staircase.

It’s tight and narrow, almost claustrophobic. Atisha wonders if it was a later addition to the Temple-- it’s been almost two thousand years since it’s construction, and while she never cared much for the semantics of Arlathan architecture, she recognizes the almost haphazard placement of the staircase. 

The walls of the second floor are littered with doorways, most of them left wide open, revealing small beds with clothes and trinkets strung across them. A few of the larger rooms are common areas, with even more doors leading from them. This is one of the living floors of the Temple, then. It makes sense, retrospectively, that this is where the contact wanted to meet. One of the few closed doors is across from a tale vase of arbor grace. Atisha doesn’t bother to knock on the door, instead slowly turning the handle and sliding inside the room.

“I told you,” the elf laying in the bed says, their voice strained with a false warble. “I’m not feeling well. Let me rest.”

“I’m sorry.” Atisha closes the door behind herself. “Must have the wrong room, then.”

They sit up in bed, look Atisha up and down, and sneer. “You were supposed to come in a side door.” They gesture to a door that led to one of the floor’s common rooms. Atisha feels her cheeks flame up at the scolding. She isn’t unused to people thinking she was inadequate, people going as far as to never see her as more than the spoiled daughter of Anaris. 

“East wing door, arbor grace adjacent. Wasn’t told anything else,” she says, lifting her chin in a slight defiance. Perhaps Adeni had set her up for failure. “I’m certain there are better ways to spend our time.”

The elf sighs, but their glare relents. They slide out of bed and push aside a half-eaten bowl of cold soup on their windowsill to reach a stack of papers. In silence, they flit through the papers, placing aside ones covered in verses about Mythal. Atisha studies their vallaslin. She doesn’t see much of any vallaslin while in the Void. Those close to Anaris are of high enough rank they don’t have any need to bind themselves to an Evanuris. And those of lower rank don’t live in the Void-- the villages and cities under the control of Anaris had been settled long before that part of the Fade was discovered. 

“Here,” the elf says, holding out a thin selection of papers. Atisha tries to pretend she hadn’t been staring. “The party might be entrancing, but don’t stick around. This information needs to be in Adeni’s hands before sunrise. She knows the cipher.”

“You got the information of this meeting to Adeni without a one on one hand-off. If this is so time sensitive, why didn’t you--”

“Listen, kid.” Atisha bristles, at both the interruption and the moniker. “Do you know how many double agents the Creators and the Forgotten Ones share? Half of the people I work with aren’t on the same side as me. Adeni knows that when I ask for a personal hand-off, it means something important. Maybe it’s a message to my family. Or maybe it’s something like what’s in those papers.”

Atisha nods. Her cheeks burn, again with embarrassment. No matter how much magic Melana’lin trained her in over the last six hundred years, she isn’t one of Adeni’s spies. She doesn’t know why she was even given this mission. She leaves the room with a nod of respect to the elf, folding up the papers and tucking them into a pouch in the inner lining of her skirts. The common room she exits through is empty. There are signs of the people who live here dotted throughout the couches and chaises. Atisha lets herself wonder about what it would feel like to have such a community for only a few seconds. 

She only makes it a few steps down the narrow staircase before a voice stops her in her tracks.

“What are you doing up here?” It’s a steady voice, if demanding, almost as young as her own.

She turns to see one of the elves from the room downstairs. He has long black hair, shaved at the sides, and the vallaslin of Mythal burned across his high cheekbones. Atisha recognizes the pattern of his robes-- this is one of Mythal’s priests, and an unfortunately attractive one. Surprisingly, she keeps her own voice calm when she responds.

“Looking to speak to you, actually. Or, someone like you. A priest.” He blinks, unimpressed. “I need advice. On motherhood?”

“On… motherhood.” He looks her up and down. “And you were looking for a priest in a disciple common room?”

“I’ve never been to Mythal’s Temple before. This is the disciple floor?” She offers a smile, hoping she looks clueless enough that he will believe her.

“I find it hard to believe that a stranger to this Temple would walk right past a room of people and up a flight of cramped stairs when she’s looking for a priest,” he says, his voice deepening with the accusation. She glances towards the next flight of stairs, wondering if she could make it if she ran, but he notices and takes a step closer to her. They’re both in the narrow staircase now, only a few steps separating them. “Why are you here?”

“Well, there’s a party going on,” she says. Her voice stays steady; she finds herself lacking the panic she knows she should have in this moment. This is the easiest of missions, and she’s blowing it. “I’m not sure if you heard.”

“Don’t play games with me. What are you? An assassin? Scoping out the Temple before you make an attempt on Mythal’s life?”

Atisha finds the concept of her as an assassin funny enough that she laughs. The man scowls in response. “No, I’m not an assassin. What a ridiculous idea.”

“A spy, then.” His scowl melts into something else-- almost pride. He takes another step towards her and she looks towards the last flight of stairs again. “Go on, try and run. Prove me right.”

“You’re awfully calm about this alleged spy,” Atisha croons, shifting her objective. If she can’t run, she has to convince him to let her go. “Cornering some poor trespasser in a stairwell, sure, but then you just question her? What if she is an assassin? Close quarters could be dangerous.”

“Close quarters _are_ dangerous.” His voice falters for a second, but he lifts his right hand, crackling with magic that is certainly meant to harm Atisha if she makes the wrong move. She thinks for a moment, then smiles and takes a step back up the stairs and closer to the priest. The magic falters just as his voice did. “What-- what are you doing?”

“I’m not a threat.” She holds up her hands, palms empty, no magic crackling around her fingertips. 

“A spy, then.” His voice is tight, but he doesn’t back away from her, or lower his own hand. This close to him, Atisha can see small braids woven into his hair, the healed scar of a piercing in his right ear, the muscles in his neck as his jaw tenses. Her eyes scan down the whole of his front. It’s easier to cast away the severity of the situation and think like she usually does; she’d love to have met this man outside of a mission. He’s easy on the eyes, looks strong, and that mouth--

“Oh, the things I’d say if you weren’t a priest,” Atisha says. At the very least, it might throw him off his guard.

It does, but not in the way she expects. The priest laughs, instead, a pure smile gracing his lips. Atisha almost feels pride for having caused it. “You’re flirting with me, now? You think that’ll work?”

“Well,” Atisha says with a smile of her own. “Will it?”

The priest sighs, the smile fading. “Tell me why you’re here, and I’ll consider it. No lies, either.”

“I work for Adeni,” Atisha admits. It’s a half-lie in itself, as she’s sure Adeni will want to have nothing to do with her after this, but the priest doesn’t need to know that. “I run messages. Personal ones. Families, lovers… there was a drop tonight.”

“And if I ask to see one of these messages?”

“And key you in to one of Adeni’s other agents?” Atisha laughs softly. “Of course not.”

“And why are their spies in Mythal’s Temple?” 

“There’s spies everywhere, priest. It’s nothing personal.”

He stares her down for a few more seconds. It’s almost long enough to make her nervous, itching to, at the very least, clock him in the face and get a head start sprinting out of the Temple. She can’t read his thoughts through his grey eyes. 

“Will Mythal be kept out of this?” He finally asks. There’s a vulnerability in the question-- he genuinely cares about his goddess. It makes sense that he does, having pledged his life to her, but Atisha has been surrounded by gods for too long to understand it. They’re people, too, albeit people with the magic of the Power in their blood.

“If Mythal minds her own business, I’m sure she will.” 

The priest lets out a breath. His hand, no longer crackling with magic, falls to his side. Atisha lets out a breath of her own, shaky and filled with the nervousness she had been repressing the entire conversation. Before he can say anything else, she turns on her heel, and runs. 

She doesn’t hear any footsteps behind her, and soon she’s back outside and slipping past the champagne table into the fray of people. The noise is startling after the quiet of the Temple. People are shouting, singing, slipping in the grass of the gardens. Music soars above it all, an orchestration of pleasant chaos. There’s no longer an urge to forget her worries and dance the night away. The sooner she leaves Arlathan, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you are all doing well! 
> 
> thank you for reading! <3


	5. Chapter 5

“The Creators are planning to move against us,” Anaris declares, his voice ringing out over the stone table. He flings a stack of papers to the table’s surface and sits down. “They see our increased border presence as a threat.”

“Increased presence that we would not need if they did not insist on harassing any traders passing through towards Arlathan,” Gelderaun says. His gloved fingers drum against the table in an increasingly erratic pattern.

Anaris had called this meeting mere minutes after reading through the papers that Atisha delivered to Adeni. The sun is high in the sky now, shining in through the ceiling-high windows that surround the entire room. Anaris sits at the head of the table, his wife at his right side and Gelderaun at his left. Despite the fact that Melana’lin and Anaris’s legitimate children are not present, their seats are kept empty, leaving Atisha sitting three seats away from Melana’lin. One of the lords of the lands sits across from her; Daern’thal, the child of Adeni and Gelderaun, sits on the other side of this lord, the final empty seat of Anaris’s children keeping him from being next to his mother. It’s a convoluted system of reputation and bloodlines, but Atisha is simply glad she has a place at the table.

“Personally, I’m surprised at how sudden this is.” Adeni’s voice is soft and calm. She places her hand on top of her husband’s to still it before continuing. “My agents haven’t reported any more anti-Forgotten One sentiments than usual.”

“Is there a chance, Adeni, that this report has been falsified?” 

“No, my king. Mythal is most removed from the efforts against us, but shares the knowledge of Elgar’nan. I’ve not had one bad report come out of her Temple. The reasoning is sound, as well-- but I am wondering if there is something deeper to it.”

Atisha nods her head slightly in agreement. It is not that her opinion matters, but that she has been having the same thoughts since reading the report. She wishes she had been able to spend more time in Arlathan, exploring the cultural underbelly of the city. Even one piece of gossip could have given her the final puzzle piece to display proudly to Anaris. That is Adeni’s agents’ job, not hers. It’s a fluke she’s even involved at all. 

“We can rule out the fact that it’s anything personal,” Adeni continues. “At least, nothing more personal that it usually is. We haven’t had direct contact with the Creators since…”

There’s a pause in her speech, and the quick glances towards Atisha do not go unnoticed by the girl. Her cheeks go warm with the sudden attention. It is attention she doesn’t understand, and will not understand for many centuries to come. Quickly, it is gone.

“Well, for centuries. I have fragmented evidence that leads me to believe this is all about trade. Perhaps their movements against our traders were a preempt to this that we did not recognize.” Adeni nods her head towards Anaris, a sign that she is done talking. He nods and lets the table sit in silence for a moment. Atisha takes the pause in the flow of information to study the lords sitting to her right. Most of them are the lords of border cities, and she can see their anxieties in the way they chew on their lips and lean forward in their chairs. The few mountain lords seem less affected. 

“Adeni, can we afford to send fortifications to Ellan?”

“Physically, I am sure you can afford sending a wealth of fortifications to every city along the border-- but to answer your question, no. This information is too specific to be taken as a coincidence, and will weaken my agents.”

“That’s what I thought,” Anaris grumbles, his eyes turning to his wife for an answer. Something Atisha has learned about Anaris through all these years of living around him is that he is not a fast thinker. While his impulses often get the better of him, when a strategic meeting like this is called with no warning, he defers to the sharp mind of his wife.

Melana’lin unfolds the hands that have been sitting patiently in her lap and leans forward with a half smile. “Send reinforcements to the main border cities, enough to relieve a change of the guard, but no more than that. Adeni, are any of your Night Agents available?”

“Only one of them,” Adeni says, tilting her head curiously. “But I’m certain he will suit this plan of yours well.”

“Send him ahead of the reinforcements. Prepare him well.” Adeni nods, and leans back in her seat to gesture to one of the pages standing along the edges of the room. While she whispers her command, Melana’lin continues. “As for the other cities, be ready to send out your forces for aid, but do not falter in the watching of your own borders. There is a chance they will target others.”

“Are there any other concerns regarding this report?” Silence meets Anaris’s question. “Good. Plan to reconvene after this battle is over-- I’m sure an official declaration will have been sent by then.”

The lords, having collectively not said a single word during the entire meeting, filter out of the room quickly. They have to get to the Eluvians and back to their cities in order to prepare themselves for the impending battle of that night. 

“Atisha, little one, wait for a moment?” Melana’lin’s voice stops Atisha from following the crowd of lords before she finishes pushing her chair back in. She nods, trying not to listen to the conversation between Geldauran, Adeni, Melana’lin, and Anaris. They’re the oldest of the Forgotten Ones, and all were born Evanuris with simple elven parents. They’re closer to each other than their own children, sometimes. Atisha realizes there must be a difference between being raised by Evanuris and being shepherded away from their family by spirits to learn how to master the Power.

Luckily for Atisha, they speak in hushed enough tones that she can’t recognize any of the words they’re saying, and eventually Gelderaun and Anaris leave to speak further elsewhere. Melana’lin gestures for Atisha to approach her and Adeni.

“We didn’t get a chance to debrief about Arlathan,” Adeni says, smiling in her empty, kind way. “How was it?”

“It was a success,” Atisha answers simply. Adeni laughs, nodding her head. 

“Yes, obviously. I did not doubt your potential, but I am glad to see my faith proven correct. Perhaps I should rephrase my question. Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes?” She looks between the two Evanuris, confused.

“The act of being a spy,” Melana’lin clarifies. “The subterfuge, et cetera. Did you enjoy being one of Adeni’s agents?”

“Oh,” Atisha says. She thinks about it for a moment before giving a smile of her own. “Yes, I did.”

“My best Night Agent is retiring,” Adeni says somberly, but with a shrug. “Others will rise into the opportunity, but my numbers cannot dwindle. I need another Night Agent, and your mother needs something to do with you now that you’ve exhausted the magic she knows how to teach.”

“A Night Agent? You want to make me…” Atisha lets her voice trail off as the concept registers. The Night Agents are more than just spies. They’re assassins, seductors, an extended hand of the reach of not only Adeni, but of the Forgotten Ones. 

“Yes.” Melana’lin places her hand on Atisha’s shoulder. “I recommended you myself. But you can refuse, little one, if this is not the path you wish to take. There is a war brewing, and no shortage of roles to be filled. Perhaps you wish to be closer to the front lines in the beginning of it all. It will not be fast learning.”

“No,” Atisha says, shaking her head. Her mind thinks back through the centuries of staying within the Void, known only as the bastard child of Anaris. A Night Agent has no personal ties. They are only a Night Agent. To serve on the battlefield, training to become a general or a battalion leader, she could only be Anaris’s daughter. “I would be honored, Adeni.”

*

Atisha moves out of the Void to live and train with Adeni immediately. Before nightfall, she is travelling through the Eluvian pathways, marvelling in the beauty of the Crossroads at sunset. Adeni sets her up in a small room among the other agents-- some of which must be Night Agents, Atisha realizes, though their identities are kept secret. 

The animosity between the Forgotten Ones and the Creators continues to brew for nearly a century before war is officially declared. No one on either side is surprised by the escalation. In the meantime, Atisha splits her time between running messages and training. Her entire life has been focused on her magic, but a Night Agent requires more finesse. She first learns how to use a staff as a weapon. Channeling magic becomes the secondary purpose for her staff, and she trains her body to throw her weight behind strikes in order to incapacitate someone. Magic becomes the secondary purpose for Atisha herself. A spy cannot count on magic to get them past the barriers of the Creators. 

As Atisha trains, mastering the staff and moving on to swords and daggers, seduction and lying, she finds herself slotting into the lives of the other agents living at the estate. It’s a sprawling place. Gardens and farmlands for miles, and a cluster of crime in the center of it.

The war has just been declared when one of her neighbors knocks on Atisha’s door just after their dinner. Atisha looks up from the letter she’d been writing, addressed to Melana’lin, and wrinkles her nose at the thought of another late night training session being sprung on her. Instead, Annalla is on the other side of the door, her deceptively innocent face smiling up at Atisha. 

“We’re going to the lake tonight,” she says. “You should come with us.”

Despite her politeness and grin, Atisha gets the feeling that Annalla is expecting to have to fight over whether or not she comes with them. Atisha has a reputation for refusing to go out with the others. Part of it is her dedication to her training-- she can’t afford to slip up when in front of Adeni, despite the goddess’s faith in her. But another part of it is that Atisha has never lived around those who didn’t know her as her father’s daughter. There were few in the Void who were not kind to Atisha out of obligation. They thought of her as a leech against her father’s kingdom, having taken a position of wealth and status she did not deserve. Truthfully, Atisha doesn’t know how to make friendships, or how to keep them.

“Don’t say no,” Annalla says before Atisha has even opened her mouth in response. “If you go, we’ll never bother you about going out again. You won’t even have a bad time, I promise.”

Atisha considers it. The promise of not having to turn down any more invitations is enticing. 

This is how she finds herself on the back of a hart, clinging to a man she’s never spoken to, as the crowd of agents ride through the night. She’s too thrilled to be embarrassed. So far, no one has held it against her for never coming out with them before. The people saddling up the harts had cheered when she followed Annalla outside. 

The ride to the lake goes by quickly. Some of the agents start reciting songs in the rough voices of those riding a hart, screaming words and melodies over the sound of galloping and cheers. Atisha’s hart makes it to the lake first. They skid to a stop and the rider helps her down from the saddle before she can say anything. He has a roguish smile, a scar over one of his eyes, and Atisha regrets never having learned his name.

“Welcome to the lake!” He gestures around them proudly. She’s been to the lake before, from both aquatic training sessions and simply exploring the grounds of Adeni and Gelderaun’s estate. “I promise you won’t regret coming with us.”

Atisha can’t think of anything to say in response to his enthusiasm. By this time, the others have arrived and dismounted their own harts. They begin retrieving instruments and bottles of alcohol from the packs on the harts while three agents combine their magic into summoning a bonfire worthy of the gods. 

Annalla finds Atisha in the chaos, having rode separately on her wife’s horse. “There you are! Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon you.” She slings an arm around Atisha’s shoulder, passes her a bottle of surprisingly high-quality wine, and leads her to where the rest of the agents are slowly congregating in a circle around the fire. 

Atisha doesn’t talk for the first few hours. She watches the sunset and nurses her wine while trying to keep track of the names and stories being thrown around. No one addresses the fact that she isn’t talking, or has never been with them before, and when her wine bottle is empty, Annalla simply finds another one to pass it to her. For the first time in years, Atisha can breathe. 

“Atisha!” It’s the man who she rode with to the lake. She’s learned so far that his name is Maldin. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I can’t stop you from asking,” Atisha responds, and the others laugh at that. 

“Where are you from?” There’s a few groans at the question, which she doesn’t understand, but it’s an innocent enough question, and admitting where she was raised isn’t anywhere close to admitting her parentage.

“The Void.” More groans erupt. The group starts shifting, people digging pouches of coins out of their pockets and tossing them across the circle to others. Atisha understands now. There was a bet on her origins. Annalla beams proudly at Atisha’s side, collecting quite a large amount of money from her wife and friends. 

“I knew it,” she says over the chatter of the group. “You always get weird when people mention Anaris. Plus, it makes sense that Adeni’d choose some nobody from the Void to be her new Night Agent.”

Atisha’s heart leaps into her throat. Annalla must catch the flash of panic, because she smiles kindly and pats Atisha’s knee. “Oh, friend, you really should have been spending more time with us sooner. There’s a lot of rumors about agents that aren’t true. We all know who the Night Agents are, for one.”

“I always thought-- people always said that jealousy was a barrier.”

“Who said that?” Maldin asks, letting out a guffaw. “Adeni? _Please_. No disrespect to our lady, of course, but she’s too busy being a goddess to understand what her agents are really like.”

“We couldn’t keep secrets from each other if we tried,” another person says, a cheer echoing their statement as a few people drink to it.

“Speak for yourself!” A white-haired woman who’s been making eyes at Atisha the whole night speaks up. Mischief shines in her eyes. “It took centuries for you all to realize I was working for the Creators.”

“You’ve lost your touch, Ellan,” someone argues. “It only took me a few days to realize you were sweet on the new girl.”

Atisha blushes as she realizes she’s the new girl in question. Romance wasn’t something she’d thought of much after her training began. Inter-agent relationships aren’t forbidden, as evidenced by Annalla and her wife, but Atisha still kept a distance from any emotional entanglements. She’d already made some enemies in the Void with her flirting around.

The night is fun. Atisha rides back to the dormitories with Ellan instead, and they’re both late to breakfast, a fact that doesn’t escape the hungover eyes of their peers. Ellan is sweet, despite being a double agent on the side of the Creators. She tells good jokes and teaches Atisha a few tricks with her daggers that will come in handy one day.

In the halls of Adeni and Gelderaun’s estate, Atisha learns to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this is a solavellan slow burn  
> also me: let's introduce a random character to establish bisexuality and get attached
> 
> the next chapter might be delayed for a handful of reasons, the first being that i didn't expect this ellan character to even exist and need to reevaluate the supposed multi-century time skip that's supposed to happen next chapter. however, tomorrow is also the start of camp nanowrimo, and i'm working on my novel for that, so writing time will be absorbed by the project, as well as by the fact that my online classes are starting tomorrow, too. i'll do my best to update frequently!
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading, and your feedback is greatly appreciated. <3


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